I Was The Turkey
by thezombiecoma
Summary: For the FanFic100 Challenge on Livejournal. This is for the prompt 'Thanksgiving'. All others can be found at Sarkney100 at Livejournal dot com.


**Title:** I Was The Turkey  
**Fandom:** Alias  
**Pairing:** Sydney Bristow/Julian Sark  
**Prompt:** Thanksgiving  
**Rating:** PG  
**Author's Notes:** No spoilers. Not mine, single mom, don't sue, kthnx. Yadda. Written for the 'Thanksgiving' prompt at FanFic100 Livejournal (dot) com._  
_

_

* * *

_

_"I was the turkey."_

Sydney Bristow still hurt. She didn't understand why it was her daddy wanted her to do this. It didn't matter to him how many times she said no, she didn't want to. Propriety was first and foremost in Jack Bristow's mind. Everything had to be done according to plan and on schedule, with no deviance. There was, more often than not, no room for deviating from the assumed plan for whatever it was Jack Bristow wanted to do or planned to do.

Sydney hated it.

In her six-year-old mind, she couldn't separate the need for propriety, the need to carry on in spite of pain, from the need to curl under the blanket her mother had made and cry for another seven hours. That blanket was really a souce of comfort for the girl. Her mother had forever been knitting or baking, cooking and cleaning. Laura Bristow had been the epitome of wifely grace, of motherly love. In fact, the suit that Sydney was wearing for her costume had been made by Sydney's mother. No matter what anyone said about Laura Bristow, you couldn't say she couldn't sew a straight stich.

Sydney hated it.

As much as she wanted to hate the suit itself, she really hated what it stood for. Thanksgiving, and what did she have to be thankful for? Her mother, the light of her life, was gone. Nothing was bringing her back! Ever! Sydney had tried stomping her feet, crying and screaming. Her father had been less than impressed with those displays of emotion. He'd tried to hide his disgust, but she'd seen it, felt it, in his gaze. And when he had stopped looking at her, embarrassed, she had taken to silently pleading in her head with God to bring her mother back. Sydney would promise anything and everything to bring her mother back. Including, but not limited to, suffering all the trials of Job, which the housekeeper had told her about on their way to church the previous Sunday.

Sydney hated it.

The hypocrisy, though at six she had no idea what hypocrisy was. What she hated was going onstage and shaking her tail feathers for the audience's delight, for their approval. She swore that if her mother was there, that she wouldn't have been nervous at all. But her mother, her beautiful, vibrant mother, had been taken from her not three weeks before...

------------------------------------------------------

Many years later, her mother, now alive and healthy, asked her about her role in the play. Sydney was taken aback at the question, as the question itself was absurd. Her mother had MADE the costume that Sydney had worn. Perhaps she had forgotten? Perhaps she wanted to make small talk... it didn't matter and Sydney confessed all of the turkey debacle to her mother.

"I was the turkey," she said quietly, before walking out. And as she drove home, she wondered at her mother's line of questioning. All the questions she COULD have asked and the former Laura Bristow had asked about a question she knew the answer to?

Sydney hated it.

What she hated more was coming home to the envelope on her door. Inside was a program and a photograph. There was Sydney at six, mid-Turkey dance, and dancing for all she was worth. On the back, someone had scrawled, "You were the most beautiful turkey ever, I wouldn't have missed it for the world. Love, Mom."

A quick turn revealed a blond head inside a silver BMW across the street. A good spy is never seen. Unless they want to be seen, that is, and Julian Sark? Wanted to be seen. His orders had been to make sure that no one else besides the daughter of his employer picked up that envelope. Mission complete, but caught, he lifted one hand in the window before driving off.

After long moments, Sydney took the photograph inside and placed it in her Box of Things to Save. As much as she wanted to hate it, she couldn't. She could still remember the lonely feeling that night at the elementary school. Realizing that her mother had been there, even if Sydney couldn't have seen her - wouldn't have been allowed to see her - was more than she could bear.

Lifiting the glass of red wine to her lips, she took a long sip from the side of the mock crystal in her hand. Contemplating on the best course of action, she decided it was best to let Irina play out her fantasy of being the prized mother. Only now, she was also the prized prisoner.

And Sydney? Hated it.


End file.
